


The Orchard

by liesmyth



Series: Good Omens Kinkmeme Fills [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Finger Sucking, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Fixation, Pre-Canon, The Arrangement (Good Omens), hand kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 08:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19719523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liesmyth/pseuds/liesmyth
Summary: Crowley eats an apple, tempts an angel, and gets more than he bargained for.





	The Orchard

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=159848#cmt159848) kinkmeme prompt.

An angel and a demon stood in a garden, surrounded by apple trees.

The trees had been Crowley’s idea, and he seemed pretty proud about it, gesturing wildly at the landscape around them as they swapped stories of their respective deeds, hashing out the details to pass along to their Head Offices. The wind whistled as it swept through the green branches, heavy with fruit, and there was hardly a soul around for miles except the two of them.

They’d first bumped into each other four months ago, wandering the streets of the same small Alpine town. Aziraphale had been in the area for a full decade now, travelling all over from Milan to Mainz, but Crowley had just been sent North on a new piece of Hell business: the temptation of the Fürstbistum, Prince of the Holy Roman Empire and Bishop of the Church and who, Aziraphale thought, wasn’t half bad, as far as modern clergymen went.

Aziraphale had scoffed a bit when he’d first heard the details of Crowley’s assignment, frowning and asked if, really, couldn’t Hell go after one of the truly bad ones? There was hardly a shortage of those, after all. Crowley had rolled his eyes.

“If you hate the idea so much, I suppose it’d be up to you to try and save his soul, angel.” And then he’d grinned, knowingly, “But that’d be an awful lot of work, wouldn’t it?”

Their Arrangement was fledgling, brand new. To practise, and since they were both around anyway, Crowley suggested they swap assignments.

“You can’t be serious,” Aziraphale had said, but Crowley had waved him off.

“You can take my place and treat His Bishopness to the lightest temptation known to man, give him a chance to save his own soul, and I will… I’ll think of something to do in your place. I’m good at coming up with things.”

That should have worried him, perhaps, but there was a part of Aziraphale that was very intrigued by the idea of discovering what Crowley arrange as a suitably angelic miracle. So they’d shaken on it and gone off their separate ways, and now here they were, in an apple orchard, swapping stories.

“It’s the best harvest they’ve had in years,” Crowley was saying, speaking animatedly. “All the farms in the region had to hire new farmhands just to keep up with it. They will talk about it in twenty years, I wager.” He gestured to the trees, ripe with fruit, and the green valley beyond that. “ _Behold_. The year of plenty.”

So, this was Crowley’s idea of a miracle. Aziraphale took notice of it, carefully, folding the information inside his mind like a flower pressed to dry between the pages of a book.

“It’s rather nice.”

“Fair use of a heavenly blessing,” Crowley agreed. Then he grinned. “There’s a lot of squabbling in town already, about what to do with the unexpected profit. Going to count that for my side, if you don’t mind.”

Aziraphale huffed, amused. He glanced at Crowley, lean and relaxed, sun burnishing his hair.

“So,” he asked, “Shall we take a walk?"

It was idyllic. They strolled slowly among the trees, full of red ripe apples, and the sky was bright blue and cloudless overhead. Aziraphale’s eyes darted to Crowley’s form at his side, the fluid way he moved, his hair curling at the back and mussed by the wind. He watched the leaves fluttering in the breeze, the pale green of the grass bedecked with bright white daisies.

“Are you thinking about Eden?”

Aziraphale blinked, taken by surprise. “No, I was…” He looked around, to the trees and the valley beyond, the glorious beauty of the world of men. “Well, now that you’ve reminded me, yes. It was beautiful, wasn’t it?”

Crowley shrugged. “Didn’t see much of it, slithering around and whatnot. The grass was soft.” He stopped in his tracks and sat down where he stood, under the shade of a thin apple tree. “This isn’t bad either. Come sit down.”

He did. The grass was indeed soft, pleasant under the palms of his hands, and Aziraphale sat with his back to the trunk of the three and watched Crowley sprawl down lazily, wrist resting over his bent knee, head thrown back as if to soak in the sunshine.

Then Crowley’s eyes gleamed, mischievously. He grabbed a ripe red apple from the nearest branch and bit into it, with gusto, just as Eve must have done once.

“So, what d’you think you’ll do now?” he asked. “Go north? Stay here? I’m thinking Vienna myself. Or maybe Spain.” He took another bite. “I like Spain.”

The apple was ripe and as juicy as apples got. Crowley’s tongue came out to dart at his lips, licking them clean, until they were pink and shiny. Aziraphale watched his throat move as he swallowed.

Crowley bit into the apple again, and moaned. It was a deep throaty sound of pure enjoyment, sinfully loud in the silent orchard. It was the kind of noise that, by itself, would have gone quite a long way in damning the Bishop’s soul.

Aziraphale, who liked to think he was made of sterner stuff, said nothing. Crowley kept eating his apple, head thrown back, eyes crinkling at the corners in amusement. Aziraphale‘s own eyes followed the line of Crowley’s neck, down to his collarbone, then flickered back up to his smiling mouth.

Crowley took another bite of his apple with satisfaction, smacking his lips. Another, biting around the pale core. He sucked on the tip of his thumb to clean it, and Aziraphale watched the shape of Crowley’s lips and thought that Spain might be nice this time of the year.

Crowley’s eyes found Aziraphale’s, purposefully, and he swallowed. Then he licked at his lips again, and when Crowley’s tongue darted out of his mouth it had a look that was distinctly forked.

“ _Crowley!_ ” Aziraphale said. “Honestly.”

“What? ‘s good.” And then he grinned, slyly. “Can I tempt you into—”

“Crowley!” he said, again, but with inexplicable fondness. There was something warm in his chest.

“‘m just saying. They’re very good apples. I like them.”

“Yes, and must you be so pornographic about it?”

That was rather more bluntness than Aziraphale usually let himself display. The words hung in the air, shocking them both, and then Crowley laughed, startled, and Aziraphale allowed himself a small twinge of satisfaction.

Once Crowley had recovered, he said, “That was kind of the point, you know. Demon. Tempting.” And then he held Aziraphale’s gaze as, very deliberately, he licked his lips again.

When Crowley was done, the core bitten clean, he threw it away into the grass with a flick of his wrist. He turned around in that way he had, as if his whole body was rippling with the motion, sinuous, almost boneless.

“You’re staring,” he said, satisfied.

“Mmm,” said Aziraphale. “You’ve got— on your chin.”

“Oh.” Crowley wiped his chin with the back of his hand, grinning the whole time, looking at Aziraphale with wicked intent. Then he made to lick his fingers.

Aziraphale grabbed him by the wrist before he had time to think about it.

“What?” Crowley looked to his hand, in Aziraphale’s grip. They both did. Crowley’s fingers glistened lightly under the sun.

“This is new,” said Crowley, sounding very pleased with himself.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. And then, slowly, he brought Crowley’s hand to his mouth.

An image made way through Aziraphale’s mind: Crowley’s lips, pink and wet. He thought about kissing him on the mouth mouth and brushed his lips over the back of Crowley’s hand instead, finding it sweetly sticky.

Crowley went very still. They remained like that for an endless instant, Aziraphale’s breath ghosting over Crowley’s skin, Crowley’s yellow eyes wide on his face.

Then, Crowley said, “Are you going to…”

He trailed off. Aziraphale turned Crowley’s hand over in his grip and looked at it, the long fingers, the lines etched into the palm. He put his mouth to the pulse point over Crowley’s wrist, where the blood flew warm under the skin, and parted his lips to flick his tongue against the hollow there, smelling the faint sweetness of the apple. He thought about the noises Crowley had made as he ate, the slow drag of his tongue over his lips. He kissed further up over Crowley’s palm, butterfly-light and chaste, and when he raised his head to look into Crowley’s face he found him stunned, surprise on his face, a high flush on his cheekbones.

Crowley’s mouth moved, but he didn’t speak. He swallowed, slowly, and Aziraphale’s eyes fell to his exposed throat. He brushed his lips over Crowley’s hand again, his palm, his wrist. He turned it over and kissed the back of it, then folded it into a fist and put his mouth to Crowley’s knuckles, sucking on the ridges there, licking at the hollows between the fingers until the skin was wet and glistening.

Then, deliberately, he put the tip of Crowley’s finger into his mouth.

Aziraphale knew what it looked like. He held Crowley’s eyes as he sucked lightly on his finger, flicking his tongue rhythmically against the pad of it, and Crowley’s _face_ — his jaw was slack, mouth half-open, and he’d never seen Crowley squirm before, but he was doing now.

“You know,” said Crowley, eventually. His voice cracked. “If you’re feeling like sucking on something…”

It was a half-hearted effort, barely a whisper. Aziraphale hummed softly around Crowley’s finger in his mouth, then pulled away. “Bit preposterous, don’t you think?” He breathed the words against wet skin. “If you want me to stop…”

He waited, expectantly, until Crowley huffed and looked away, mouth twisting. Aziraphale pressed a small kiss into the palm of his hand.

“Good,” Aziraphale said, and then he kissed there again, down to the wrist and up the side of Crowley’s hand, the curve of his thumb, then closed his lips around the tip of it.

This time, he let his teeth graze the skin. He sucked on Crowley’s thumb and let his cheeks hollow with the suction, and when he glanced up at Crowley he found him staring, flushed and tense, barely breathing.

He pulled back and wrapped Crowley’s hand closed, kissing the back of it, and relished the stunned look on Crowley’s face, pinked and bashful, head ducked away. His eyes were wide and dark with daze and arousal, like a virtuous maiden learning of pleasure for the first time, and the sight of Crowley like that stirred something warm inside Aziraphale’s chest. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps this was too dangerous.

But he couldn’t stop. He licked along the curve of Crowley’s thumb and traced the back of his hand with open lips, leaving faint wet imprints on the back of his fingers. Then he sucked on Crowley’s thumb again, swallowing deeply around it until it hit the roof of his mouth.

Crowley moaned. It was soft and artless, nothing like the practised noises from earlier, and Aziraphale felt a twinge of satisfaction. He could stop now, he figured. Turnabout and all that.

But Crowley was looking at him, face flushed.

Aziraphale pulled back just slightly, drooling a bit around the tip of Crowley’s thumb. “You look lovely like this, dear,” he said, and Crowley flushed even darker and shifted slowly in place, sitting up to his knees in the grass. His free hand went to press down between his legs, instinctively, and Aziraphale chuckled around his mouthful.

“Really?” he said, meaningfully, and Crowley drew back his hand as if it burned.

Aziraphale pulled back some more until the pad of Crowley’s thumb rested over his lips, and watched the flicker of Crowley’s eyes to his wet mouth.

“Come on,” he said, against the thumb pressed into his lip. “You should.”

And then Crowley’s hand trembled, moving, for the first time, of Crowley’s own accord. Crowley’s wet fingers traced the curve of Aziraphale’s lips, the set of his jaw, and when Aziraphale opened his mouth Crowley pushed two fingers inside of it without needing to be told. He pressed down against Aziraphale’s tongue, the soft inside of his cheek, and then he pushed down until Aziraphale’s throat spasmed around his fingers.

Crowley’s eyes went wide and he made to pull away, but Aziraphale grasped his wrist so that he couldn’t, then swirled his tongue around the base of Crowley’s fingers, pushing into the space between them.

After, once he felt that it was quite enough, he pulled Crowley’s hand away from his mouth and went back to kissing it, nuzzling his face into the wet palm, kissing a path down to his wrist, on the back, on each knuckle. And then, slowly, Aziraphale brought Crowley’s hand down to the soft grass, laying it there, and let it go.

Some time passed, marked by the distant singing of birds and the frantic beating of Aziraphale’s heart. Crowley, looking stunned, kept glancing to his own hand like it was something foreign and dangerous — a snake in the grass, as humans would have said, and Aziraphale chuckled at the thought before he could stop himself.

Crowley’s eyes flickered upwards. “What’s so bloody funny?”

“Nothing.”

“And what— what the Heaven was _that_?”

Primly, Aziraphale said, “I thought I’d taste that apple. You did say it was very good.”

Crowley’s face, already pink, went darker. He closed his hand into a fist and brought it up to his chest, involuntarily, covering it with his left. There was nothing left of his artful performance, those studied moans he’d teased him with earlier. He’d wanted Aziraphale’s attention, and then he got it.

Crowley cleared his throat. “Do you mind?”

“Do I mind what, my dear boy?”

“Oh, don’t play daft,” Crowley said. “I need to…” He gestured down to his body. “Take care of it.”

“Do you, really.”

“ _Yes_. Just— go take a walk or something. Off you go.”

“Usually you’d be suggesting that I watch,” said Aziraphale, who had no intention of indulging quite that far. He was relishing Crowley’s reactions, the high flush on his cheekbones.

Predictably, and satisfactorily, Crowley almost choked. “Are you— really going to?”

“Of course not,” said Aziraphale. “I’m going to take a walk. Give me your hand.”

Crowley did. Aziraphale pressed his lips to the back of it, one last lingering kiss, and felt him shiver.

“Well, go on then,” he said, against Crowley’s hand.

He released his hold and stood up without looking back. His feet took him a small distance away, and Aziraphale stared down at the grass against his boots and thought about what Crowley must be doing now, trying very hard not to picture the details. He couldn’t hear anything, not that he was straining his ears to listen, and he wondered if that was how Crowley truly went on about it, stripped of all his pretences and his tricks, silent and responsive and prone to flushing.

He thought that perhaps one day he might find out, and the thought was more enticing than it should be. Standing in the shadow of the trees, he could feel the ghost of Crowley’s heated gaze on his cheek.

Then, slowly, Aziraphale reached out to pick an apple dangling somewhere above his head. He turned it over in his hand, red and harmless, and thought about temptation and sin and Crowley performing miracles in the valley. Cautiously, he took a bite, and smiled.

It was the best apple he ever had.


End file.
